


Not Until Tonight

by confused_jensen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dead John, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Reverse Reichenbach Falls, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confused_jensen/pseuds/confused_jensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just let them know the truth about me, please. This phone call, it’s my note. That’s what people do right? Leave notes?”</p><p>“Leave notes when?” Sherlock said, a seed of dread building in the pit of his stomach. Part of him already knew what John meant but most of him refused to accept it.</p><p>“Goodbye, Sherlock.”</p><p>“No, John don’t you dare— Dammit!” he cursed when the phone clicked off and threw it to the ground, shouting up at the tower just in time to see the doctor spread out his arms. “JOHN!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Until Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by some lovely fanart by wings-for-dreams on deviant art. Here's the link to the specific photo---> http://wings-for-dreams.deviantart.com/art/Let-you-fall-318605882
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy this little oneshot.

“ _All of it was fake, Sherlock. None of it was real… none of it._ ”

Sherlock felt tricked, betrayed. He felt so unbelievably _stupid_. How could he have missed the signs for this? John’s betrayal. His cahoots with Moriarty. The detective had missed it simply because there were no signs at all. John had never been anything more than a normal bloke who was compassionate enough to put up with Sherlock’s antics.

Stupid, stupid, **stupid**.

Of course no one could ever love him. Withstand his presence sure, but never develop emotions for him. That brief moment in the lab of course it had been nothing.

**-.-**

_John answered his phone quietly and abruptly wandered off to the corner of the room to talk. Sherlock continued on with his microscope, blocking out the unnecessary noise, but still listening to the brief utterances of John’s voice in the corner._

_“Yes, I uh— oh… y-yeah I understand… But can I at least— yeah… okay, yeah thanks I guess. Bye,” John spoke in his hushed voice. He ended the call promptly and stared at the wall, face blank and scared at the same time for a second before it was gone. He composed himself and walked over towards Sherlock._

_The detective of course, having not seen his colleague’s facial expression, asked in an even tone. “Who was it?”_

_“Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson— she’s been shot.”_

_Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “How?”_

_"I don’t know. I’m going there now. Come on,” John said and started rushing about throwing on his coats and gloves._

_“I can’t,” Sherlock said quietly, staring down at the slide he was currently studying without really seeing it. They were so close to catching Moriarty’s network extensions, solving this whole thing. No, he couldn’t leave now._

_John stood staring at him, mouth agape, appalled. There was a tense moment of silence before it snapped shut with an audible pop. He studied Sherlock’s expression for a moment and understanding blossomed over his features._

_“It’s fine, I… I think I understand.” John took unsteady steps towards the black haired detective. He shook his head again with a dry laugh. “Are you sure?”_

_Sherlock shook his head and pressed his face back to the microscope. “I’m busy.”_

_“ **Busy?** ” John said._

_Sherlock gave out a loud sigh of frustration, fingers grasping and tugging at his hair desperately. “Thinking. I need to think!”_

_"But Sherlock, she’s dying,” John tried again, the doctor in him coming out._

_The detective shook his head. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” He stilled when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. The thumb carefully kneaded into his skin, offering false comfort._

_“No. Friends protect people,” John said and removed his hand walking towards the door before muttering under his breath. “And I’ll be the one that protects you.”_

**-.-**

“John, tell me. Is it a vatican cameos situation? Who's making you do this?” Sherlock said, holding his phone in a white knuckled grip. He stared at the silhouette of his friend on top of the impossibly tall building that was Bart’s Hospital.

“ _No Sherlock, I just can’t pretend anymore. I’m tired of this sham._ ”

Sherlock shook his head and began to stride towards the building he had just walked out of.

“ _No! Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Keep your eyes on me you hear?_ ”

The detective immediately froze, returning to his previous position. “Okay.”

“ _Sherlock, please I— can you do something for me? I don’t deserve it after all this but…_ ”

“What do you want me to do?”

“ _Just let them know the truth about me, please. This phone call, it’s my note. That’s what people do right? Leave notes?”_

“Leave notes when?” Sherlock said, a seed of dread building in the pit of his stomach. Part of him already knew what John meant but most of him refused to accept it.

“ _Goodbye, Sherlock_.”

“No, John don’t you dare— Dammit!” he cursed when the phone clicked off and threw it to the ground, shouting up at the tower just in time to see the doctor spread out his arms. “JOHN!”

He wasn’t sure when he stopped breathing, he wasn’t sure when his heart caught in his throat. He didn’t even know how he got all the way over to wear John was laying on the street in a puddle of his own blood.

His pursuit towards his friend was halted as he ran into a sudden wall of people. Their hands grasped at his shoulders trying to pull him away, as if they could. And he didn’t want them grabbing at him, their touch almost physically burned him skin. No, he needed John’s touch. “No please, let me through. He’s my friend… he’s my friend,” he argued brokenly. They finally gave up and stood aside.

The sight was enough to make him drop to his knees. John was just there, lifeless. His blue eyes stared up at nothing, arms splayed out at his sides. Blood trickled from his ears, nose, and mouth, pooling below his head in a nearly black puddle that only shone read when light reflected off of it.

He grasped John’s wrist, desperately searching for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. The lack of feeling from the still blood in his friend’s veins made tears burn at his eyes, but he held them back. Now wasn’t the time to let sentiment overtake him. This was public.

Soon enough the ambulance arrived and delivered John away, unceremoniously slipping his short body into a plain black bag. Sherlock couldn’t help but think in outrage at the thought. They should be wheeling him away in a diamond casket decorated with lilies not a sodding _black bag_.

No, his feelings were getting the better of him now. He needed to leave, go back to the flat. Think.

**-.-**

It hadn’t taken Sherlock long to find John’s note. The phone call hadn’t convinced him for a second. The only reason anything like this could have ever happened had to have something to do with Moriarty. And of course, it did.

_Sherlock,_

_If you’re reading this now then that means that I’ve come to the end of the road. Moriarty has been successful in his endeavors and I’m dead I guess._

_I’m not sure what he’ll make me say, but please know this; I care for you, I really have come to realise that over the past few months. You told me once that you weren’t a hero, and to be honest there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but just know this: you are the best man, and the most human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me otherwise. You truly are brilliant. Please try to not let this affect you. Live well. Share your deductions with the world._

_Your Friend,_

_John H. Watson_

Sherlock sat in John’s chair read it over and over, committing the words to memory, storing them away in John’s room in his mind palace. He shook his head, no, John deserved and entire hall, a whole floor.

He numbly reached out and pulled John’s laptop into his lap. His fingers gingerly rested on the keys as the device booted up. He thought of all the times John had sat here, typing away at his blog only to delete half of it when Sherlock would revise it. The memories hurt and he couldn’t understand why. It felt as if someone had a tight grip on his heart and just wouldn’t let go.

When the computer finally came to he pulled up the blog, avoiding the previews of all of the entries and going straight to the post section. He typed the words out very slowly, clicking one key almost every five seconds.

His finger hovered over the post button before he finally tapped the board. He eyes roamed over the two lines he had written.

_John Hamish Watson (Best Friend)._

_1974-2012_

He stared at it for only a moment longer before slamming the top down and throwing himself from the chair that smelled all too much like his friend's cheap cologne and lavender body wash. Drops of tears dripped from his chin and to the floor as he finally broke down.

And Sherlock cried.

**-.-**

Mrs. Hudson startled and glanced up towards the ceiling as the sound of Sherlock’s thrashing and screaming bled through the walls. Soon the yelling died out, as did the banging, and then the apartment went silent. It put an unsettling feeling in her stomach, as she briefly feared the worse. But no, Sherlock would never do anything like that. His mind would never let him.

But John’s death _would_ destroy him and Mrs. Hudson feared the days to come. She knew the detective would never trust anyone again. Not like John.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said and silently sipped her tea.

 


End file.
